The law speaker’s voice was deep and rural. He was almost reminiscent of cows gently lowing in their stalls, or of stable doors creaking on their wooden hinges. The words he spoke were simple and almost naive. But his Jupiter-like face reflected a restrained play of kindliness, satire and wisdom.
“Then there was one day,” he continued, “when Barbara was particularly unreasonable towards Pastor Niels – while everyone was listening. She heaped him with derision and words of scorn. The good man didn’t know what to do. He tried to calm her down, but that only made her more furious. Finally, she hit him. They had a servant called Kristoffer, an enormous fellow. This was too much for him. He suddenly went across and took hold of Barbara and carried her out of the house.”
“Did a servant take hold of the parson’s wife?” asked Madame Mathilde.
“Yes.”
“Good heavens. What did she say?”
“What could she say? He carried her out as though she were a little child. She is said to have looked somewhat surprised. Only when he had got behind the house with her did she start to be worried. But she wasn’t big in his hands. Then he took her and put her head first down into a barrel intended for liquid manure. And there he left her.”
“Is it really true that he did that?” asked several of the listeners.
“Kristoffer himself told me,” said the law speaker.
Madame Mathilde was a little overcome and needed her smelling salts. “Good heavens, if it had been me, I would never have shown myself to people again.”
“It is said not to have looked particularly seemly,” said Samuel, smiling as he contemplated a life which occasionally took a dramatic turn. “All the servants had followed them. I think they were rather taken aback.”
He smiled again, just a little: “Well, it isn’t often you see a parson’s wife in that position.”
“Who helped her to get out?”
“Kristoffer knocked the barrel over and then she crawled out herself.”
“I suppose she didn’t exactly appreciate that bit of humble pie?” the judge asked.
“She was furious. She turned all the servants out of the house for the rest of the day. Poor Pastor Niels caught it in the neck and had to help her to get herself cleaned up. They say he had to carry eighteen tubs of water to her from the river. It was summer, Saturday afternoon. His sermon the following day at Midvág was as you would expect. But when the servants came home that evening Barbara was just as comely and pretty as usual and acted as though nothing had happened. Kristoffer came to me and gave himself up. I assumed that neither Pastor Niels nor Barbara wanted a court case out of it. And nor did they. So I kept Kristoffer in my service and from him I learned a great deal about what went on in Jansegard.”
There was an amazed silence. Knitting needles were all that was heard.
“Oh, so that was the queen you were talking about,” said Armgard after a time.
“She is a queen nevertheless,” said the law speaker. “Three days after this I had to come to Tórshavn by boat. Barbara came and asked whether she could come with me. But then I actually said that I couldn’t take her. I don’t otherwise like to refuse help. And this seemed to be a matter of amazement to her. Aye, that’s what Barbara is like.”
“It is really strange that that story has not made Barbara look more ridiculous than is the case,” remarked Pastor Wenzel. “One would think that even the most beautiful woman would be completely humiliated and impossible after that.”
“No, but why not the exact opposite?” said the judge.
“Ugh, no,” exclaimed Madame Mathilde.
“It shows how clever she is,” thought Anna Sophie.
“Oh, what the hell,” explained the store manager. “She simply made sure that people had something else to talk about, for it was not long then before she killed her husband.”
“It was almost six months after all this,” the law speaker corrected him quietly. “It was in November. Pastor Niels had been with us and preached in Sandavág Church. It had been thawing and then it had rained, but during the day a hard frost set in and all roads and paths were covered with ice. Pastor Niels wanted to ride home as usual that evening. We tried as best we could to persuade him not to go. But he was not to be persuaded. He insisted. Fed up with him as Barbara probably was, she still would not accept that he left her alone in the evening.”
“So the minister rode off,” continued the law speaker, “and everyone knows what happened then. At Midvág sands the horse stumbled on a slippery rock, and Pastor Niels fell and broke his leg. They say that Barbara was very kind to him at first and looked after him so tenderly that it looked as though they were fonder of each other than ever. But then it apparently started to be too monotonous for her. The minister made good progress and had reached the stage where he could sit up with his bad leg stretched out over a chair. One day, one of the servants came in and said that some boat was putting in at the landing place. “It’s probably some men from Tórshavn,” he added. Barbara, who had been sitting with Pastor Niels, flew up and rushed across to the window – that’s what she is like, of course – and she inadvertently overturned the chair with the result that the minister’s damaged leg was knocked to the ground and broken for the second time. Then they took the minister to the surgeon barber here in Tórshavn. But he simply made a mess of it. The result was gangrene, and Pastor Niels didn’t get over that.”
“Yes, Samuel,” said Armgard. “And the widow went into deep mourning.”
“I don’t know how deeply she mourned, but she certainly mourned, as everyone could see.”
“Of course she mourned,” said the judge. “Barbara is no monster. But she does forget confoundedly quickly, I will grant you that.”
“I think I am probably right when I say she really is like a child.”
“Oh, stop all that nonsense. All you grown men in charge of the country and its inhabitants! Just fancy letting yourselves be dazzled like that. A child! A real baggage, I say, the way she behaves, playing up to everybody.”
Armgard was incensed.
“Tell me,” said Anna Sophie, “have you ever been in Barbara’s company?”
Armgard scowled.
“She is so beautiful,” said Anna Sophie.
“She’s a dangerous woman,” said Bailiff Harme with great dignity.
“Yes,” said Pastor Wenzel. “As the hymn says: ‘fairest flower has poisoned juice’. Barbara can be as charming as she likes, but Christian people must still disassociate themselves from her deeds.”
“She ought to be locked up,” said Armgard scornfully. “She is a danger to everyone around her and she leaves behind nothing but disaster. It ought to be possible to put her away for adultery.”
“Well,” said Johan Henrik, shrugging his shoulders. “In that case there are perhaps quite a lot of others who should be put away as well. As far as I have understood the world.”
“Oh yes, God have mercy on us,” said Ellen Katrine, crippled but amused on her bench.
“No, let the Lord deal with Barbara,” reasoned Johan Hendrik. “She is simply made in such a way that almost any man, indeed any living being that sees her likes her. And she feels that in every instance however small, even if it is just a dog looking admiringly at her from a corner.”
“Well,” wondered Anna Sophie, “can she help it? That is woman’s nature.”
“Yes, indeed,” Johan Hendrik continued eagerly. “And she has become so much a woman that it is a necessity for her that everyone, even the least and the most unworthy, should admire her. Everything in her must conquer over all and has done so to this very day. Everyone must love her. And she will love everyone. But that’s where it goes wrong for her. She can’t manage that.”
“I simply don’t know what you mean when you talk like that,” said Armgard.
“I think it is all very right and wisely put,” said the storekeeper, “but it can all be put in words that are far shorter and more comprehensible. Barbara is sim
ply lecherous through and through. That is quite simply my opinion.”
At that moment there came the sound of women’s voices from the hearth room and two young women appeared. Pastor Poul started: it was the two beautiful women he had seen in the entrance to the Store.
“Blast and damnation!” exclaimed the commandant. He was so drunk and amazed that he remained in the doorway to the study holding his bottle for everyone to see.
That remained his sole contribution to the discussion, and no one noticed it, for all eyes were suddenly turned on the newcomers, who enhanced the room with their beautiful dresses, the scent of their powder and their laughs and smiles.
“Talk of the devil…” said Bailiff Harme.
“Were you talking about us?”
“About you, Barbara, yes,” said the judge in a serious voice and with a hidden little smile.
That seemed to please and flatter her; she looked down and laughed, modestly and happily.
But Pastor Poul was as though turned to stone.
The two young women went around and shook hands with everyone. Barbara Salling was fairly tall and fair haired; her mouth was large and red, her teeth beautiful. She carried herself with natural charm and with courtesy to match. Suzanne Harme was of a more delicate figure and had a far more beautiful face. But her intelligent eyes were outshone by the lively and quickly changing quality of Barbara’s, while her sonorous voice seemed monotonous beside all the remarkable modulations in her friend’s voice. It was like a rainbow of enchanting sounds that had suddenly made its appearance in the midst of the dry conversation.
The new Vágar parson rose and in some confusion made himself known to the widow in the benefice. He was surprised and dazzled. Barbara shook hands with him without taking much notice of him, but her natural manner was so perfect that it had the effect of calming him. Indeed, calm descended on everyone. The law speaker smiled up from the quiet depths of his kind nature; Pastor Wenzel was friendly, though with some reservation on behalf of Heaven; Anna Sophie was elated and the storekeeper’s gallantry bordered on the officious. But his anaemic wife, Mathilde, sat there agog, devouring Barbara and her every movement and expression with eyes radiating the wildest demons of curiosity. Yet no one noticed that, for everyone noticed only Barbara.
But Barbara noticed Armgard’s knitting and was very interested.
“It’s not a jersey… oh, a scarf, or is it a shawl?”
And the pattern was very interesting. Armgard had to explain how it was going to turn out, pointing with her knitting needle.
“That will be lovely.” Barbara’s eyes adopted an expression of lively anticipation as to how old Armgard’s scarf would look when at last it was finished.
Armgard’s face took on a look of contentment; a smile started to spread across her shrunken lips; the stumps of her teeth appeared in an expression of pure friendliness, and she finally looked at Barbara with as much tenderness in her eyes as can conceivably under any circumstances be expected of a seagull. The two of them carried on a conversation about knitting and purling.
From her bench, old Ellen Katrine wanted to get a proper look at Barbara. She had never spoken to her before; she lived on a large farm in the interior of Esturey and so was rarely to be seen in Tórshavn. She held the young woman’s hand for a long time: “Oh, so this is Barbara; that’s what you look like.” Her old eyes radiated courteousness.
Barbara was somewhat overcome by all this scrutiny; she looked down and she looked up; there was something almost comical in her uncertainty. She blushed.
“Aye, well,” the old woman finally said, “you are pretty, as I had expected. God bless you. Oh dear, oh dear…”
Barbara’s errand was only to ask the bailiff whether the Fortuna had brought any letters for her mother. She had looked for him in vain in his office. There they had told her that he was out in Tórshavn somewhere. She had persuaded Suzanne to come with her. Now, thank goodness, they had finally found the bailiff on Reyn. But the bailiff informed her that there was unfortunately no letter for Mrs Salling, Well, there was nothing else, and so the two women left.
The judge greeted Barbara in a certain ironical tone that they had both come to agree on viewing as a form of affectionate banter. She answered him with a glance that could be interpreted as saying, “Yes, you are the only one who really understands me, and you appreciate me.” He rather liked that. But who could know? Perhaps she also thanked the storekeeper for his gallantry with some glance that made him feel that he was the only one, that he was the real one.
Aye, Barbara probably had sweet secrets with everyone – greater or lesser secrets.
“Isn’t she lovely,” said Ellen Katrine. “It could well be that you are right in what you all say, but are you really sure that Pastor Niels was the husband for her?”
“No,” said the judge with a little smile, “but who is?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully, as was his custom. There had been a lot of going to and fro in the study. The law speaker had been there again and was going around slowly in a process of profound and quiet self-renewal. Outside, it was growing dark and rain was falling. The men agreed to go down to the store and look at the wares. It looked as though it was going to be a thirsty evening, a very thirsty evening. Armgard’s needles were again knitting angrily at the pattern that had awakened Barbara’s excitement and expectation for a brief moment.
This was Pastor Poul’s first day in Tórshavn.
Happiness on Account
The rain continued.
Pastor Poul Aggersøe went for the occasional stroll in the streets, but found nothing that could raise up his heart from the feeling of melancholy into which it had immediately sunk at the sight of this dark and desolate town.
He had not expected to feel like this, for he was not otherwise inclined to hang his head. He was usually a cheerful person, and in his life so far there were many points from which his heart could derive strength even in solitary moments. While a student and after graduating from Borchs College he had gained a great deal of respect for his ability in the field of theology, something about which he was suitably pleased. He was aware that something was expected of him in the world of theology, and his very despatch to the Faroe Islands he had seen to be an important mission. No, he was not one of these hungry boys with a third class degree who were only considered suitable for some small parish in Finmark or in Greenland. The bishop in Copenhagen had personally sent for him and asked him to apply for the parish of Vágar. It was not going to be prejudicial to him – no, he would be called to other parishes after this. But the bishop had pointed out to him that the clergy in the Faroe Islands were in a bad way and that in addition he had received complaints from the islands’ dean, Anders Morsing. He was hoping now that by sending one or two of the best of the young clergy he would be able to introduce them to support the good clergy there and serve as examples to be followed by the poorer ones.
When, after his conversation with the bishop, Poul Aggersøe had emerged into the street again, the late afternoon sunshine had just caught the tall, gilded spire of the Cathedral Church of Our Lady. It rose from one level to another, square and closed at the bottom, octagonal further up, still blossoming and striving upwards, one element growing out of the other, untiringly and vertiginously reaching for the heavens until, finally, like the top note in an aria, it ended in a long point and a bar holding three resplendent crowns 350 feet up in the air. It was a magnificent sight, a majesty in which he delighted every day, and he suddenly realised how difficult it would be for him to leave Copenhagen. For although really a country dweller, he had increasingly fallen in love with this city, where he found all the things that gladdened his heart.
He had a liking for festivities and splendour as well as for honour. He would listen with delight to the playing of the organ and the singing in church, but he was also fond of drama and opera. And he had participated in masquerades, too, although he had had his doubts as to whether this was a suitable p
ursuit for a man who was preparing to serve the Lord. For he did intend to serve the Lord, although he honestly often felt that his fiery, passionate nature, alas, was far too much a thing of this world.
But he was young and had so far found it easy to agree with God. Indeed, God helped him; He had given him rich gifts, graciously strengthened him in zeal and ability and led him far in learning. And this call to the distant Faroe Islands could only be seen as a further distinction, for it was no ordinary call, but rather to be seen as a steep step on the ladder of grace which – although at the moment rather a burden to him – would later help him further on his way.
The very fact that it was a burden could only encourage him all the more. Was he perhaps a soft, weak, indolent person? Not at all. He had strengths that he would like to test. Admittedly, he had not hitherto seen the preaching of the Word to be something for which he was suited. He was much better fitted for learning. But it was ultimately not so much in order to preach as to reinstate peace and calm and good customs that he was being sent, and in truth he did not intend to spare himself. What he achieved was to be heard as far away as the bishop’s palace in Copenhagen.
And at the same time he was not going to forget that any honour coming to him was due solely to God. In this way he fired his spirit, and when, the following day, he attended divine service in the cathedral and the entire splendid congregation sang Kingo’s great hymn “Farewell, oh world, farewell” his heart swelled as never before, and with a mind filled with fervour, he took leave of the splendour and glory of the city to travel to the distant Faroe Islands as a soldier of the Lord. Indeed, his breast was afire when he left the church to the jubilant play of the organ pipes. The rays of the sun were refracted to bristle unevenly between the huge columns in the tripartite chancel. Gloriously elevated he emerged into the crowd at the foot of the tower. At that moment, his will was as upright as the spire high above his head reaching out and stretching to heaven.
Barbara Page 4
